I read more today than usual because I was drawn into the saga of Wayan and her potential new home. It hasn't happened, yet.
Liz wrote more about Felipe, what kind of man he is. She wrote about his character and that she's falling in love with him (he's already fallen in love with her). I can't help but feel sorry for Liz's ex-husband . . . unless, he's a really good man, a strong man who's able to move on (though, by the sound of the painful fights resulting from the divorce, I feel doubtful). I feel bad for the guy who got dumped, only to have his ex-wife go on to live this beautiful life. Unless, of course, he found a way through truly loving her to be happy that Liz is living a joyful life, even though he still hurts a little.
An interesting thing about Felipe: "For some reason," he says. "I feel the same way about you that I felt about my kids when they were small - that it wasn't their job to love me, it was my job to love them. You can decide to feel however you want to, but I love you and I will always love you . . . even if we never see each other again, you already brought me back to life, and that's a lot." p 311
Felipe is a wise man. He seems to have learned how the world works. I feel, again, as if I'm at the beginning. Compared to Felipe, I'm just beginning to see how the world works. It's like I'm just beginning to be shown and he's already been shown. I'm just beginning to learn how to see, to learn, even if I don't like the lessons very much. So, it's my job to love my fiancee and not her job to love me back (especially in the way I think I should be loved - I should strike that notion from my mind).
I should ask myself: How generous am I with my love? Do I put conditions on it? Do I put conditions on my generosity? That's not very generous then is it? Do I rub her feet without any expectation of reciprocation (just an example)? Do I resent having to do it because I haven't gotten anything in return?
God asks me to be kind. loving and generous. As far as I know, he doesn't ask me to stop these things when I think I'm not getting what I deem the proper amount of love in return. I'm just realizing now that I don't know how to love unconditionally yet. Perhaps, that comes from the fact that I don't know how to love myself unconditionally, yet. I guess I have to learn how to accept myself, "warts and all", before I can learn to accept my fiancee, "warts and all".
Monday, April 30, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Day 59 March 30th, 2012 Yeah, This One Is About Sex
In Chapters 97 and 99 (98 was spent on a road trip with Yudhi), Liz finally has sex with Felipe . . . and more sex . . . "When we (she and Yudhi) return to Ubud, I got straight back to Felipe's house and don't leave his bedroom for approximately another month." p 294 "Never have I been so unpeeled, revealed, unfurled and hurled through the event of love-making."
Liz offers a key (or is it instruction) for men: ". . . if a man really touches you gently, caresses your skin, says loving things, kisses you all over your body, takes his time . . . sex can be nice." p 302
How many of us take our time? I guess this question is really for the dudes. How many of us worship our women's bodies the way Felipe worships Liz's? I know, you're probably thinking (like me) try doing that after a year or 10 years, even. Doctors and therapists would have an answer for this. I do not.
I've known how to be animalistic. I've known how to find the woman who wants to be taken and take her. I've learned how to touch and kiss and lick in all the right places and move in all the right ways for the sake of pleasure. Let me stop here and note that I have since begun to learn the difference between love and pleasure . . . or even happiness and pleasure. But, back when I was picking up women, they were usually drunk and horny already, so they were already willing. When a woman is ready and willing all a man has to do is listen to her body and learn how to have a little stamina and well, you're great in bed! However, I imagine the women's insecurities and vulnerabilities were quieted by alcohol. And, great sex is different than great love making. Also, a dude has to eventually consider the cost of continually being a stud in a stranger's bed. Out there in the fictional world created in the deluded male brain (seemingly driven by scientifically suggested animal instinct ingrained in our DNA) the "stud" is the ideal. "The Ladies Man"!
However, the compulsion to please a new woman every night, to somehow win or dominate or achieve the "stud of the year award" leaves you feeling empty. The best I ever felt was the same, never better about myself. I'll stop short of getting entirely too personal here and say this: Even deeper than that urge to sow our oats sits the basic need to be loved. And, random acts of sex has never been a substitute for love. Believe me, I've tried. Maybe other men can do it without guilt or conscience. But, in pursuit of a meaningful life, such actions always left me wanting.
Then, there's sharing with the one you love! Scary! I still feel like I'm clumsy at it. Do I do the things Liz writes about? Yes. I think. At least I've learned how to listen to a woman's body. Without going to into embarrassing detail (I've embarrassed myself enough I think), time and attention with one woman will teach you a lot about what she likes.
Do I have patience, though? Do I really take my time, or do I rush into things and hope she'll catch up? I suppose my fiancee and I could have that conversation that makes the little boy inside me blush and get squirrelly. But, if we're in this for the long haul, I guess we have to learn how to communicate about such things.
Again, how many of us worship the temple that is the woman's body? And, how many woman take care of it, love it and nurture it, themselves. I'm not talking about masturbation (Liz did. I can't). I'm talking about really taking care of yourselves, loving your own self, loving your own bodies (despite what the airbrushed, photo shopped magazines say), providing for yourself and the healthy, strong temples you'd be happy to look at in the mirror. I'd take confident over "perfect" any day, by the way.
Another thing I've learned is that if a woman feels "fat" or "ugly", or if she's feeling insecure or distracted by any thought (hell, even if her back hurts or my stubble hurts!) an orgasm isn't going to happen. But, hey, sometimes "it" doesn't happen. Women still enjoy the act of love making. At least that's what I've been told. Maybe I've been lied to. If that's true, the woman ultimately suffers. If a woman lies about sex with even a halfway decent man she's selling herself short.
Of course, chemistry is the key! See Day 58's entry. I've said enough, probably too much. And, I've even edited myself!
Liz offers a key (or is it instruction) for men: ". . . if a man really touches you gently, caresses your skin, says loving things, kisses you all over your body, takes his time . . . sex can be nice." p 302
How many of us take our time? I guess this question is really for the dudes. How many of us worship our women's bodies the way Felipe worships Liz's? I know, you're probably thinking (like me) try doing that after a year or 10 years, even. Doctors and therapists would have an answer for this. I do not.
I've known how to be animalistic. I've known how to find the woman who wants to be taken and take her. I've learned how to touch and kiss and lick in all the right places and move in all the right ways for the sake of pleasure. Let me stop here and note that I have since begun to learn the difference between love and pleasure . . . or even happiness and pleasure. But, back when I was picking up women, they were usually drunk and horny already, so they were already willing. When a woman is ready and willing all a man has to do is listen to her body and learn how to have a little stamina and well, you're great in bed! However, I imagine the women's insecurities and vulnerabilities were quieted by alcohol. And, great sex is different than great love making. Also, a dude has to eventually consider the cost of continually being a stud in a stranger's bed. Out there in the fictional world created in the deluded male brain (seemingly driven by scientifically suggested animal instinct ingrained in our DNA) the "stud" is the ideal. "The Ladies Man"!
However, the compulsion to please a new woman every night, to somehow win or dominate or achieve the "stud of the year award" leaves you feeling empty. The best I ever felt was the same, never better about myself. I'll stop short of getting entirely too personal here and say this: Even deeper than that urge to sow our oats sits the basic need to be loved. And, random acts of sex has never been a substitute for love. Believe me, I've tried. Maybe other men can do it without guilt or conscience. But, in pursuit of a meaningful life, such actions always left me wanting.
Then, there's sharing with the one you love! Scary! I still feel like I'm clumsy at it. Do I do the things Liz writes about? Yes. I think. At least I've learned how to listen to a woman's body. Without going to into embarrassing detail (I've embarrassed myself enough I think), time and attention with one woman will teach you a lot about what she likes.
Do I have patience, though? Do I really take my time, or do I rush into things and hope she'll catch up? I suppose my fiancee and I could have that conversation that makes the little boy inside me blush and get squirrelly. But, if we're in this for the long haul, I guess we have to learn how to communicate about such things.
Again, how many of us worship the temple that is the woman's body? And, how many woman take care of it, love it and nurture it, themselves. I'm not talking about masturbation (Liz did. I can't). I'm talking about really taking care of yourselves, loving your own self, loving your own bodies (despite what the airbrushed, photo shopped magazines say), providing for yourself and the healthy, strong temples you'd be happy to look at in the mirror. I'd take confident over "perfect" any day, by the way.
Another thing I've learned is that if a woman feels "fat" or "ugly", or if she's feeling insecure or distracted by any thought (hell, even if her back hurts or my stubble hurts!) an orgasm isn't going to happen. But, hey, sometimes "it" doesn't happen. Women still enjoy the act of love making. At least that's what I've been told. Maybe I've been lied to. If that's true, the woman ultimately suffers. If a woman lies about sex with even a halfway decent man she's selling herself short.
Of course, chemistry is the key! See Day 58's entry. I've said enough, probably too much. And, I've even edited myself!
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Day 58. March 26th, 2012 Chemistry
"My friend Annie says it all comes down to one simple question: 'Do you want your belly pressed against this person's belly forever - or not?'" p. 294
I think my fiancee and I have belly on belly chemistry. I'm not going to get into embarrassing details, but we all know when it feels good . . . and I'm not just talking the naughty bits. I'm talking the whole package. Like when they're skin feels good. Or, when they make that certain sound when you're "doing something right." We've noted that we're crazy over each others' pheromones.
But, like a typical guy, I'm about to nod off. The last two days I've been training at the restaurant, working on "Save the Dates" and meeting about a video shoot I have coming up. And, the chair I've found at the library is REALLY comfy. That all adds up to a powerful need for a nap. Thank God sex lasts longer than it took to write this.
I think my fiancee and I have belly on belly chemistry. I'm not going to get into embarrassing details, but we all know when it feels good . . . and I'm not just talking the naughty bits. I'm talking the whole package. Like when they're skin feels good. Or, when they make that certain sound when you're "doing something right." We've noted that we're crazy over each others' pheromones.
But, like a typical guy, I'm about to nod off. The last two days I've been training at the restaurant, working on "Save the Dates" and meeting about a video shoot I have coming up. And, the chair I've found at the library is REALLY comfy. That all adds up to a powerful need for a nap. Thank God sex lasts longer than it took to write this.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Day 57. March 24th, 2012 Fear
I've gotten a new job at a restaurant and I'm afraid. It's only part-time. I'm still afraid. Liz's life seems to simple, free, straightforward. I suppose she's not burdened with my kind of insanity. I get a new guy to help - I'm afraid. I get some work thrown my way - I'm afraid. I don't have any money - I'm afraid (well, that's a reasonable fear). I'm sick of all this fear!
I've learned that fear is a lack of faith. Yet, I seem no less afraid than when I was still drinking. It just goes to show that a simple cessation of drinking coupled with a little "straightening up and flying right" isn't enough.
Funny, God is giving me gifts and I'm afraid of them - like how I was afraid to jump into the pool for the first time when I was a child, untrusting of the swimming instructor and crying. However, by the time I was in Junior High School, I was competitively swimming; and winning from time to time. Interesting metaphor for my life. For, now I stand at the edge of every swimming pool God leads me too . . . and wail in fear, cling to my fiancee (like my mommy) looking to her for courage, afraid to leap into the pool of life.
What am I afraid of? Looking life a fool, a failure? Am I afraid of people not liking me, getting mad at me? I'm afraid of success, too. Actually, I'm afraid of the responsibility success will bring me. I'm also afraid of what a fool I'll look like trying to achieve success at something I'm not yet good at. I'm afraid of being laughed at or worse, being passed over. I'm afraid of the expectations that follow success. Perhaps, they'll realize I'm a fraud, that I don't have what it takes to run with the "big boys", to swim with the big kids.
So, where does that get me? Too much reliance on all things human. I, as a human and others as humans will let me down. My self-will can only get me so far. God does the rest. So, I get jealous of those who are actually brave enough to try. And, I'm judgemental of myself: "I'm not going to be good enough anyway, so why bother trying."
The effort, as I can recall, wasn't well-applauded when I was growing up. It was the accomplishments. And, second place wasn't good enough. Frustration and disappointment weren't always understood and acknowledged. Fear was never an option. I've come to believe that fear equals weakness.
However, I'm 8 years past the age where I can no longer blame my parents for my problems. I heard the other day that everybody experiences fear. Jeb Corliss (the guy in the wingsuit), I think said this and that the only difference is that he doesn't let fear own him or control him. I guess I do.
Then, I burden my fiancee with it. It sucks the passion and the romance out of our life together. It doesn't allow me to adore her the way Felipe adores Liz - with confidence, with certainty, in an uncomplicated, direct, pure, certain way. Liz is swimming with God and I'm too afraid to jump into his arms.
I have been fired from three restaurants, two in sobriety. One, I quit from in a very ugly way, then sat at the bar and drank (not in sobriety). Perhaps, I'm not thoroughly following God's path. And, no mystical, magical spell reserved for Scott is going to save me. I have to face my fears and trust that God will be right there with me the whole time and he won't let go.
If I went to Bali, it would just be an escape . . . an escape in vain, because there is no escape from fear.
I've learned that fear is a lack of faith. Yet, I seem no less afraid than when I was still drinking. It just goes to show that a simple cessation of drinking coupled with a little "straightening up and flying right" isn't enough.
Funny, God is giving me gifts and I'm afraid of them - like how I was afraid to jump into the pool for the first time when I was a child, untrusting of the swimming instructor and crying. However, by the time I was in Junior High School, I was competitively swimming; and winning from time to time. Interesting metaphor for my life. For, now I stand at the edge of every swimming pool God leads me too . . . and wail in fear, cling to my fiancee (like my mommy) looking to her for courage, afraid to leap into the pool of life.
What am I afraid of? Looking life a fool, a failure? Am I afraid of people not liking me, getting mad at me? I'm afraid of success, too. Actually, I'm afraid of the responsibility success will bring me. I'm also afraid of what a fool I'll look like trying to achieve success at something I'm not yet good at. I'm afraid of being laughed at or worse, being passed over. I'm afraid of the expectations that follow success. Perhaps, they'll realize I'm a fraud, that I don't have what it takes to run with the "big boys", to swim with the big kids.
So, where does that get me? Too much reliance on all things human. I, as a human and others as humans will let me down. My self-will can only get me so far. God does the rest. So, I get jealous of those who are actually brave enough to try. And, I'm judgemental of myself: "I'm not going to be good enough anyway, so why bother trying."
The effort, as I can recall, wasn't well-applauded when I was growing up. It was the accomplishments. And, second place wasn't good enough. Frustration and disappointment weren't always understood and acknowledged. Fear was never an option. I've come to believe that fear equals weakness.
However, I'm 8 years past the age where I can no longer blame my parents for my problems. I heard the other day that everybody experiences fear. Jeb Corliss (the guy in the wingsuit), I think said this and that the only difference is that he doesn't let fear own him or control him. I guess I do.
Then, I burden my fiancee with it. It sucks the passion and the romance out of our life together. It doesn't allow me to adore her the way Felipe adores Liz - with confidence, with certainty, in an uncomplicated, direct, pure, certain way. Liz is swimming with God and I'm too afraid to jump into his arms.
I have been fired from three restaurants, two in sobriety. One, I quit from in a very ugly way, then sat at the bar and drank (not in sobriety). Perhaps, I'm not thoroughly following God's path. And, no mystical, magical spell reserved for Scott is going to save me. I have to face my fears and trust that God will be right there with me the whole time and he won't let go.
If I went to Bali, it would just be an escape . . . an escape in vain, because there is no escape from fear.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Day 56. March 23rd, 2012 Affairs and Such
Finally! A full night's sleep. No howling last night. After almost a week of that: falling asleep at 2 or 3 am, waking up at 6 am to the dog howling, listening to classical music on my ipod with the volume turned up to drown out the sound, drifting in and out of sleep until 10 or 11 am . . . what a relief!!
But, we slept through the night. How pleasant and relieving it was to hear our neighbor come home last night, to hear the slamming of the door, the happy, yippy whimpering . . . then, silence. Sweet, wonderful silence! I think out of pure relief I feel asleep early.
Liz explained her hesitation to Felipe's suggestion that they have an affair: ". . . some else inside me put in a serious request that I donate the entirety of this year of travelling all to myself. That some vital transformation is happening in my life, and this transformation needs time and room in order to finish its process undisturbed. That basically, I'm the cake that just came out of the oven and it still needs more time to cool before it can be frosted. I don't want to loose control of my life, again." p. 284
Good advice for an alcoholic like me. Many of us who go through such life-altering, vital transformation wish to "get involved" in our first year - myself included. I was pretty indiscriminate on the number of "affairs" I wanted to have once I was single and "getting sober". I shot right out of the oven and went swimming in the frosting, making messes, causing third degree burns everywhere. I didn't devote enough time and energy to the vital transformation. I didn't leave time to God to do his work. I cheated myself.
But, I guess I wanted my cake and I wanted to eat it too, and the frosting, lots of it . . . and lick the bowl, your bowl too and have a bite of your cake. I had stopped drinking, yes, (on the day of typing this, I've been gifted four years without a drink) but I hadn't found sanity. I was impeding my transformation, listening to my own sick thinking as opposed to God's love, wisdom, and cleansing purity.
So, I chose the harder, more painful path, stringing my recovery out over a long, arduous period of time. But, it finally got too painful and I had to let go of my old thinking and old behavior, completely. I wasn't able to do it all at once. But, as I have let go, so has my life gotten better.
I wonder what's next. The wedding is approaching. Though it doesn't seem so now, I'll blink and suddenly, it will be November. I wonder if my fiancee and I know what we're getting into. We do. We've had a practice run. We've lived together for awhile. We've had our fights. We've made up. We've reached understandings. We've found common ground. We've grown and are learning.
Liz writes something interesting about herself: "I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather that with the man himself, and then I have hung onto the relationship for a long time (sometimes for too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism," p. 285.
That feeds my fears. Is that what my fiancee and I are doing to each other? One thing I must mention here is before I got sober, she hung on, knowing there was a good person underneath the drunken infidelity. It fed a sick relationship, but her relentless love paid off in the end. We had to break apart to come back together.
It's an illusion to thin we have any control over some one's potential. I don't think Liz was necessarily a victim of her own optimism. I think she was a victim of her expectations. The more I try to force my fiancee to be the great person I think she should be, the more she resists and gets angry. All I can do is support and encourage what she wants to do. And leave the potential stuff up to her and God. And, keep facing my own fears.
If she never changed, would I still love her. I don't know. Probably. I couldn't help it. But, that's a future that hasn't happened yet (and may not ever happen) and I wouldn't have any control over it any way. I ought to love her for who she is (not for who I think she should be) and let God take care of the rest.
But, we slept through the night. How pleasant and relieving it was to hear our neighbor come home last night, to hear the slamming of the door, the happy, yippy whimpering . . . then, silence. Sweet, wonderful silence! I think out of pure relief I feel asleep early.
Liz explained her hesitation to Felipe's suggestion that they have an affair: ". . . some else inside me put in a serious request that I donate the entirety of this year of travelling all to myself. That some vital transformation is happening in my life, and this transformation needs time and room in order to finish its process undisturbed. That basically, I'm the cake that just came out of the oven and it still needs more time to cool before it can be frosted. I don't want to loose control of my life, again." p. 284
Good advice for an alcoholic like me. Many of us who go through such life-altering, vital transformation wish to "get involved" in our first year - myself included. I was pretty indiscriminate on the number of "affairs" I wanted to have once I was single and "getting sober". I shot right out of the oven and went swimming in the frosting, making messes, causing third degree burns everywhere. I didn't devote enough time and energy to the vital transformation. I didn't leave time to God to do his work. I cheated myself.
But, I guess I wanted my cake and I wanted to eat it too, and the frosting, lots of it . . . and lick the bowl, your bowl too and have a bite of your cake. I had stopped drinking, yes, (on the day of typing this, I've been gifted four years without a drink) but I hadn't found sanity. I was impeding my transformation, listening to my own sick thinking as opposed to God's love, wisdom, and cleansing purity.
So, I chose the harder, more painful path, stringing my recovery out over a long, arduous period of time. But, it finally got too painful and I had to let go of my old thinking and old behavior, completely. I wasn't able to do it all at once. But, as I have let go, so has my life gotten better.
I wonder what's next. The wedding is approaching. Though it doesn't seem so now, I'll blink and suddenly, it will be November. I wonder if my fiancee and I know what we're getting into. We do. We've had a practice run. We've lived together for awhile. We've had our fights. We've made up. We've reached understandings. We've found common ground. We've grown and are learning.
Liz writes something interesting about herself: "I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather that with the man himself, and then I have hung onto the relationship for a long time (sometimes for too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism," p. 285.
That feeds my fears. Is that what my fiancee and I are doing to each other? One thing I must mention here is before I got sober, she hung on, knowing there was a good person underneath the drunken infidelity. It fed a sick relationship, but her relentless love paid off in the end. We had to break apart to come back together.
It's an illusion to thin we have any control over some one's potential. I don't think Liz was necessarily a victim of her own optimism. I think she was a victim of her expectations. The more I try to force my fiancee to be the great person I think she should be, the more she resists and gets angry. All I can do is support and encourage what she wants to do. And leave the potential stuff up to her and God. And, keep facing my own fears.
If she never changed, would I still love her. I don't know. Probably. I couldn't help it. But, that's a future that hasn't happened yet (and may not ever happen) and I wouldn't have any control over it any way. I ought to love her for who she is (not for who I think she should be) and let God take care of the rest.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Day 55. March 21st, 2012 Love is Always Complicated
Felipe says, "And love is always complicated. But still humans must try to love each other darling. We must get our hearts broken sometimes. This is a good sign, having a broken heart. It means we have tried for something." p 277
Felipe is the older Brazilian man, who hosted a party Liz went to, who Liz flirted with, who held doors for her, danced with her, called her "darling". "Then, again, I noticed he called everyone 'darling' - even the hairy male bartender. Still the attention is nice . . ." p 267.
Call me thick. Call me slow, but I think this is the guy she falls in love with. And, she decides, based on past experience, to not marry him. I think, in her next book (in real life, for that matter) they're forced to marry to get him into the country.
ANYWAY, as to his insight into the complications of a relationship - even choosing the color of a blender to be added to the wedding registry at Potter Barn can get complicated. Dudes! Here's a piece of advice given to me that I think can be helpful: You have to care! Or, at least care about the fact that she cares.
It may seem like a "Running Man" game of mind reading, but it's not. She just wants to have a discussion. She may already have decided on the red one and you want the blue one. She may already have decided on the wooden salad tongs and you couldn't give a rats ass about salad tongs (and, forced to decide, you'd pick the metal ones - because, hey, metal is easier to clean, it's more durable . . .) but she still wants the wooden ones.
And, we love our women, right? And, somewhere, deep down beneath our meat-head male ego and our Grizzly Adams logic, we want them to be happy. So, we have to participate. They need to know that we at least care about the time and the effort they put in to making our future house or apartment a home.
And, as much as the box set of Steve McQueen DVDs, the first set of Craftsman tools we still love, The picture of you and Cal Ripken, Jr., or the tickets to the Monsters of Rock concert we went to in our 20s still make us happy, so does the perfect blender, the perfect set of towels, the perfect picture frame, and, yes, the perfect set of salad serving utensils make her happy. Because, those things have specific meaning to her, the same way our favorite 1/2" socket wrench has specific meaning to us. As we linger over which is the perfect drill with the LED work light, level, keyless chuck, with carbide bits, 14.4V . . . so will she linger over the perfect set of silver wear.
Screw it! It makes her happy. My favorite pen makes me happy. Your favorite set of strings on your guitar may make you happy. And, if a tune-up with a K&N air filter, high-performance platinum spark plugs, and synthetic oil make you drive around with pride, then perhaps you can care a little bit about the thread count of the sheets she'll slink into, the color of the towels she'll dry her naked body with or the pots and pans she may like to cook with while quietly humming a lovely tune to herself. Holy Crap! Just I get totally sexist there?
So, in the spirit of equality, consider this: When helping clean up after dinner, I don't want crappy pans that are hard to clean. Also, my fiancee likes to hang shelves. So, she wants an easy-to-use drill with varied speeds, a reasonable torque control that doesn't race to 3,000,000 rpms and is well-balanced.
We both want a nice living space. We both want a nice home. We like to make decisions together, because the relationship, as complicated or as much of a pain in the ass as it can be, still matters. We're partners. Our opinions matters to each other. That's why we ask it. I've bucked at her answers, only to conceded two days later that she was right (the proper use of the word "alight"). She's done the same with me (An announcement at the reception that dessert is available and people can serve themselves). We're still learning. But, if we do it out of love, the misunderstandings will be few and the fights will be short.
Felipe is the older Brazilian man, who hosted a party Liz went to, who Liz flirted with, who held doors for her, danced with her, called her "darling". "Then, again, I noticed he called everyone 'darling' - even the hairy male bartender. Still the attention is nice . . ." p 267.
Call me thick. Call me slow, but I think this is the guy she falls in love with. And, she decides, based on past experience, to not marry him. I think, in her next book (in real life, for that matter) they're forced to marry to get him into the country.
ANYWAY, as to his insight into the complications of a relationship - even choosing the color of a blender to be added to the wedding registry at Potter Barn can get complicated. Dudes! Here's a piece of advice given to me that I think can be helpful: You have to care! Or, at least care about the fact that she cares.
It may seem like a "Running Man" game of mind reading, but it's not. She just wants to have a discussion. She may already have decided on the red one and you want the blue one. She may already have decided on the wooden salad tongs and you couldn't give a rats ass about salad tongs (and, forced to decide, you'd pick the metal ones - because, hey, metal is easier to clean, it's more durable . . .) but she still wants the wooden ones.
And, we love our women, right? And, somewhere, deep down beneath our meat-head male ego and our Grizzly Adams logic, we want them to be happy. So, we have to participate. They need to know that we at least care about the time and the effort they put in to making our future house or apartment a home.
And, as much as the box set of Steve McQueen DVDs, the first set of Craftsman tools we still love, The picture of you and Cal Ripken, Jr., or the tickets to the Monsters of Rock concert we went to in our 20s still make us happy, so does the perfect blender, the perfect set of towels, the perfect picture frame, and, yes, the perfect set of salad serving utensils make her happy. Because, those things have specific meaning to her, the same way our favorite 1/2" socket wrench has specific meaning to us. As we linger over which is the perfect drill with the LED work light, level, keyless chuck, with carbide bits, 14.4V . . . so will she linger over the perfect set of silver wear.
Screw it! It makes her happy. My favorite pen makes me happy. Your favorite set of strings on your guitar may make you happy. And, if a tune-up with a K&N air filter, high-performance platinum spark plugs, and synthetic oil make you drive around with pride, then perhaps you can care a little bit about the thread count of the sheets she'll slink into, the color of the towels she'll dry her naked body with or the pots and pans she may like to cook with while quietly humming a lovely tune to herself. Holy Crap! Just I get totally sexist there?
So, in the spirit of equality, consider this: When helping clean up after dinner, I don't want crappy pans that are hard to clean. Also, my fiancee likes to hang shelves. So, she wants an easy-to-use drill with varied speeds, a reasonable torque control that doesn't race to 3,000,000 rpms and is well-balanced.
We both want a nice living space. We both want a nice home. We like to make decisions together, because the relationship, as complicated or as much of a pain in the ass as it can be, still matters. We're partners. Our opinions matters to each other. That's why we ask it. I've bucked at her answers, only to conceded two days later that she was right (the proper use of the word "alight"). She's done the same with me (An announcement at the reception that dessert is available and people can serve themselves). We're still learning. But, if we do it out of love, the misunderstandings will be few and the fights will be short.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Day 54. March 18th, 2012 Going Back to the Beginning
I thought it ironic that I was at a meditation workshop on one of the biggest drinking days of the year.
"I can barely sleep at all this night . . . I doze a bit, then wake as the sun comes up, just as I'm accustomed to. Only this morning I am not rested and I am not at peace and I'm in no condition for meditation. Why am I so agitated? I had a nice night, didn't I? I got to meet some interesting people, got to dress up and dance around, had flirted with some interesting men . . ." p 269
The exact same thing happened to me, except for the nice night, interesting people, dancing around and interesting men part. I couldn't sleep last night. In fact, when I did, I had night mares. I woke up a wreck, mentally exhausted, but unable to sleep. I dozed awhile after my fiancee and her brides maids went shopping.
I, too, was in no condition for meditation. So, much to my relief and disappointment, I skipped the workshop today. I wasn't interested in five more hours of fighting to stay awake. But, this, of course adds to my feelings of abject failure. If Liz, perhaps, feels like a failure at loving, then I definitely feel like a failure at praying! I've been told on a number of occasions that I set my expectations too high. What? Me? No!
In addition to the feisty red head and the small apartment, there's the dog who is beginning to howl more and more. Maybe, someday, I can find peace in such an environment. But today, my blood is boiling.
Did I take on way too much yesterday? Anyway, I decided to not completely bail on meditation. I went to the writers' space and tried again . . . for five minutes. I pulled out the free hand-out they gave us yesterday that contained the Guru's guide to meditation. I tried to just concentrate for five minutes . . . leaving the proper breathing, the "heart-center" part and the quieting the mind part for later. It didn't go too badly. I used a coin commemorating my 3 year anniversary. That definitely has cosmic/spiritual/miraculous aspects to it. Even though thoughts flitted here and there, I was able to stay focused for most of the five minutes. And, that was encouraging.
AND, I didn't get a headache. Even more encouraging! That means I wasn't focusing form the intellectual mind. Maybe, the concentrations was coming from me heart center up through my third eye without me even knowing it (having forgotten to focus on it like I was supposed to).
Maybe the battle at the workshop was because I was reaching farther than I was able. I guess I'm at the VERY beginning. I'll start there. And, screw it! I drank coffee. A radical change in practice and habit may have thrown me anyway. Why make it any harder on myself at the beginning the necessary?
It reminds me of when I had a few months sober. I told a friend of mine that I was thinking of giving up coca-cola because it was making me fat. He told me to work on getting sober first. So, I'm trying to learn how to enter the void without even learning how to concentrate first. So, this is my first step on the road to meditation. And, perhaps, I can bring God in for help. Duh! I'm trying to open a channel to God under my own strength and will power. More irony.
So, what felt like utter defeat and abject failure, now feels like a little victory. I made a small start. It's not like raising $18,000 to by Wayan a home of her own (p. 274) but a victory none-the-less.
Perhaps, God humbled me, showed me where I ought to be, what I'm really ready for. Perhaps, I needed to be shown how overwhelming it can be so I'd stop trying for the whole meditative kit and kaboodle with an untrained and unskilled heart and mind. Being wracked with poor sleep, achy bones and exhaustion, I was kept from going back for yet another spiritual smack down. I could quietly consider that I need to learn how to concentrate first.
I was typing up Day 46 today and I went back to Liz's very first meeting with Ketut. So, in the spirit of going back to the beginning, I re-read the desire she first brought to Ketut: "I want to be with God all the time. But, I don't want to be a monk, or totally give up worldly pleasures. I guess what I want to learn is to live in this world and enjoy its delights, but also devote myself to God." p 26-27
I guess that's where I am right now.
"I can barely sleep at all this night . . . I doze a bit, then wake as the sun comes up, just as I'm accustomed to. Only this morning I am not rested and I am not at peace and I'm in no condition for meditation. Why am I so agitated? I had a nice night, didn't I? I got to meet some interesting people, got to dress up and dance around, had flirted with some interesting men . . ." p 269
The exact same thing happened to me, except for the nice night, interesting people, dancing around and interesting men part. I couldn't sleep last night. In fact, when I did, I had night mares. I woke up a wreck, mentally exhausted, but unable to sleep. I dozed awhile after my fiancee and her brides maids went shopping.
I, too, was in no condition for meditation. So, much to my relief and disappointment, I skipped the workshop today. I wasn't interested in five more hours of fighting to stay awake. But, this, of course adds to my feelings of abject failure. If Liz, perhaps, feels like a failure at loving, then I definitely feel like a failure at praying! I've been told on a number of occasions that I set my expectations too high. What? Me? No!
In addition to the feisty red head and the small apartment, there's the dog who is beginning to howl more and more. Maybe, someday, I can find peace in such an environment. But today, my blood is boiling.
Did I take on way too much yesterday? Anyway, I decided to not completely bail on meditation. I went to the writers' space and tried again . . . for five minutes. I pulled out the free hand-out they gave us yesterday that contained the Guru's guide to meditation. I tried to just concentrate for five minutes . . . leaving the proper breathing, the "heart-center" part and the quieting the mind part for later. It didn't go too badly. I used a coin commemorating my 3 year anniversary. That definitely has cosmic/spiritual/miraculous aspects to it. Even though thoughts flitted here and there, I was able to stay focused for most of the five minutes. And, that was encouraging.
AND, I didn't get a headache. Even more encouraging! That means I wasn't focusing form the intellectual mind. Maybe, the concentrations was coming from me heart center up through my third eye without me even knowing it (having forgotten to focus on it like I was supposed to).
Maybe the battle at the workshop was because I was reaching farther than I was able. I guess I'm at the VERY beginning. I'll start there. And, screw it! I drank coffee. A radical change in practice and habit may have thrown me anyway. Why make it any harder on myself at the beginning the necessary?
It reminds me of when I had a few months sober. I told a friend of mine that I was thinking of giving up coca-cola because it was making me fat. He told me to work on getting sober first. So, I'm trying to learn how to enter the void without even learning how to concentrate first. So, this is my first step on the road to meditation. And, perhaps, I can bring God in for help. Duh! I'm trying to open a channel to God under my own strength and will power. More irony.
So, what felt like utter defeat and abject failure, now feels like a little victory. I made a small start. It's not like raising $18,000 to by Wayan a home of her own (p. 274) but a victory none-the-less.
Perhaps, God humbled me, showed me where I ought to be, what I'm really ready for. Perhaps, I needed to be shown how overwhelming it can be so I'd stop trying for the whole meditative kit and kaboodle with an untrained and unskilled heart and mind. Being wracked with poor sleep, achy bones and exhaustion, I was kept from going back for yet another spiritual smack down. I could quietly consider that I need to learn how to concentrate first.
I was typing up Day 46 today and I went back to Liz's very first meeting with Ketut. So, in the spirit of going back to the beginning, I re-read the desire she first brought to Ketut: "I want to be with God all the time. But, I don't want to be a monk, or totally give up worldly pleasures. I guess what I want to learn is to live in this world and enjoy its delights, but also devote myself to God." p 26-27
I guess that's where I am right now.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Day 53. March 17th, 2012 Liz Meets a Guy and I Fall Asleep During Meditation
"You're young and beautiful, darling. You only need the one dress." p. 269
Ian: "started his career in the British army in Northern Ireland as a bomb expert, then became an international mine field detonation guide. Built refugee camps in Bosnia, was now taking a break in Bali to work on music . . . " plus, he likes the Simpsons, travelled all over the world, lived in an Ashram once, mentioned Tolstoy once . . . p. 268. Me: none of those things. Am I jealous? Maybe.
I know one thing. I'm feeling pretty beat up today. Huh, beat up by meditation. Odd. I started with the Meditation Festival workshop thing yesterday and continued today. I cant remember the last time I felt so out to sea! I expected a sort of "welcome home" feeling, a feeling of wonder like when you step inside an enormous and majestic cathedral. I expected to lock into the guided meditation, to start on my journey toward God with the instinct of a migratory bird. But, all I got was sleepy.
In fact, the meditation was like balancing on a wobbly 3-legged stool. You think you've got your balance, but one leg gives way and you fall into thinking too much. You get yourself propped back up, focusing on your breathing and your heart shakra (wherever the hell that is, because they tell me it's not, in fact, over your heart!) Then, crack! Another gives way and your imagination is drifting away (running away more like it - like a dog off a leash). Once again, gathered up, rebalanced, and not a moment later, but the third leg goes flying off into the corner and you fall . . . asleep.
I think I spent most of the afternoon of staring at candles, flowers, different colors, etc just fighting off sleep! I tried coffee during the lunch break, but all that made me do is have to wiz every 20 minutes.
So, there I was, sleepy, doe-eyed Scott, running to the bathroom while everybody else seemed to be making some good first steps in meditation. Then, of course, there was that prick who was meditation before the meditation . . . you know, one of those eager, good student bastards that has to sit in the front row! They were all asking interesting and exciting questions as far as the teacher was concerned. I, in my quiet was, asked for no help. Speaking of help, the raging, congestion-filled headache did not help! I even took allergy medicine last night.
DayQuil helped . . . and a nap . . . after!
Some suggestions they gave us were: meditate every day. Find a special place at home and dedicate it ONLY to meditation and prayer. Get up early (the suggestion was 6 AM, mother of God!! I can't even do 8 am). Perhaps they don't have a strong-willed red head at home who refuses to go to bed before 2 am, has a little tantrum when the TV gets turned off around midnight and engages them in debate for the next half-hour. Perhaps, too, they don't live in an over-loaded studio apartment that has NO empty spaces or corners that could be used solely for meditation.
So Liz = Carmen Sandiego (as in, "where in the world is . . ."). Me = Poop Monster.
They said no laying on the floor. That shoots down my friend's idea. Maybe I could bring something to the writing space to change the aura of one of the cubicles or something. But, what? The suggested a picture of one of Sri Bok-choy's (that's not his name. It's really Chinmoy) paintings. But, they just look like colorful doodles to me. But, supposedly, they were created in a transcendent, meditative state. They still look like doodles to me. Maybe, my previously hopeful mind has slammed shut. Maybe, I don't know true beauty. Maybe, I'm a monkey in a science-priest-warrior-poet world, messing around in the mud, mistaking the shiny stones for God.
None-the-less, I intend to go back tomorrow. I don't know why, but I'm going to go back. Despite the discouragement. Hell, it could be pure masochism. Maybe, I'm a glutton for thick-headed, foggy-spirited punishment. Who knows? Maybe, it's supposed to be really, REALLY hard.
Again, God asks us to only seek. Unless I'm missing something, he doesn't ask us to be Gurus by the end of the weekend. Oh, and St. Patrick's day craziness going on outside.
Ian: "started his career in the British army in Northern Ireland as a bomb expert, then became an international mine field detonation guide. Built refugee camps in Bosnia, was now taking a break in Bali to work on music . . . " plus, he likes the Simpsons, travelled all over the world, lived in an Ashram once, mentioned Tolstoy once . . . p. 268. Me: none of those things. Am I jealous? Maybe.
I know one thing. I'm feeling pretty beat up today. Huh, beat up by meditation. Odd. I started with the Meditation Festival workshop thing yesterday and continued today. I cant remember the last time I felt so out to sea! I expected a sort of "welcome home" feeling, a feeling of wonder like when you step inside an enormous and majestic cathedral. I expected to lock into the guided meditation, to start on my journey toward God with the instinct of a migratory bird. But, all I got was sleepy.
In fact, the meditation was like balancing on a wobbly 3-legged stool. You think you've got your balance, but one leg gives way and you fall into thinking too much. You get yourself propped back up, focusing on your breathing and your heart shakra (wherever the hell that is, because they tell me it's not, in fact, over your heart!) Then, crack! Another gives way and your imagination is drifting away (running away more like it - like a dog off a leash). Once again, gathered up, rebalanced, and not a moment later, but the third leg goes flying off into the corner and you fall . . . asleep.
I think I spent most of the afternoon of staring at candles, flowers, different colors, etc just fighting off sleep! I tried coffee during the lunch break, but all that made me do is have to wiz every 20 minutes.
So, there I was, sleepy, doe-eyed Scott, running to the bathroom while everybody else seemed to be making some good first steps in meditation. Then, of course, there was that prick who was meditation before the meditation . . . you know, one of those eager, good student bastards that has to sit in the front row! They were all asking interesting and exciting questions as far as the teacher was concerned. I, in my quiet was, asked for no help. Speaking of help, the raging, congestion-filled headache did not help! I even took allergy medicine last night.
DayQuil helped . . . and a nap . . . after!
Some suggestions they gave us were: meditate every day. Find a special place at home and dedicate it ONLY to meditation and prayer. Get up early (the suggestion was 6 AM, mother of God!! I can't even do 8 am). Perhaps they don't have a strong-willed red head at home who refuses to go to bed before 2 am, has a little tantrum when the TV gets turned off around midnight and engages them in debate for the next half-hour. Perhaps, too, they don't live in an over-loaded studio apartment that has NO empty spaces or corners that could be used solely for meditation.
So Liz = Carmen Sandiego (as in, "where in the world is . . ."). Me = Poop Monster.
They said no laying on the floor. That shoots down my friend's idea. Maybe I could bring something to the writing space to change the aura of one of the cubicles or something. But, what? The suggested a picture of one of Sri Bok-choy's (that's not his name. It's really Chinmoy) paintings. But, they just look like colorful doodles to me. But, supposedly, they were created in a transcendent, meditative state. They still look like doodles to me. Maybe, my previously hopeful mind has slammed shut. Maybe, I don't know true beauty. Maybe, I'm a monkey in a science-priest-warrior-poet world, messing around in the mud, mistaking the shiny stones for God.
None-the-less, I intend to go back tomorrow. I don't know why, but I'm going to go back. Despite the discouragement. Hell, it could be pure masochism. Maybe, I'm a glutton for thick-headed, foggy-spirited punishment. Who knows? Maybe, it's supposed to be really, REALLY hard.
Again, God asks us to only seek. Unless I'm missing something, he doesn't ask us to be Gurus by the end of the weekend. Oh, and St. Patrick's day craziness going on outside.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Day 52. March 16th, 2012 Vulnerability, Shame and Happiness
I start this, not by a reading from Eat, Pray, Love, but from a TED talk by Brene Brown. She talked about vulnerability and shame. I'm trying to retain this powerful talk that washed over me, moved me. Built is "I'm sorry, I did something bad, wrong." Shame is, "I'm sorry, I AM something bad, I AM something wrong." Shame keeps us from being vulnerable, from being human. It keeps us out of the "arena" (a la Teddy Roosevelt). It keeps us from daring greatly. It dares us to never say the words, "Me too" and, we accept the challenge.
It keeps us men from being sympathetic. We still live under the illusion that we need to be strong, show no emotion, work hard and answer conflict with violence. Like a man said to Brene, "My women would rather see me die on my white horse than watch me fall down . . . the women in my life are harder on me than anyone else."
Shame keeps me from seeking work as a writer because I don't have a college degree. It keeps me from actively seeking roles I know I could play, or that I'd be "perfect for". It keeps us small. It keeps us from loving our husbands and wives. It keeps us from giving them the full honor and respect we vowed to them on our wedding day.
It keeps us making fun of people, judging them, criticizing them, tearing them down so we don't feel so small, so vulnerable.
She made a point that we believe something which I have, in fact, felt deep down for a very long time: vulnerability = weakness.
Yet, she pointed out that when we see some one bearing their soul, being honest about themselves, being vulnerable, we applaud their bravery.
I, too, have shrunk, kept myself small, too afraid to dare greatly. And, where has it gotten me? What has this kind of behavior gotten you? Ask yourself, "If I dared greatly in whatever I love to do, what would happen?" No, "what are you afraid would happen", but what would actually happen? If you failed, at least you had the courage to try, to dare greatly. And, on your deathbed, you could look back, not with regret, but with the knowledge that, at least, you tried. You honored the life and the love and the courage and the strength that was given you by God and nobody, NOBODY can take that from you. No amount of sarcasm, making fun, criticizing, judging or anything can take that greatness from you.
The cowards scoff and the courageous dare.
All you do when you make fun of people and criticize them is show how frightened you are. What are you so afraid of?
Tagore writes: "Give me the supreme courage to love, this is my prayer - the courage to speak, to do, to suffer at Your will, to leave all things or be left alone. Strengthen me on errands of danger, honor me with pain, and help me climb to that difficult mood that sacrifices daily to you.
"Give me the supreme confidence of love, this is my prayer - the confidence that belongs to life in death, to victory in defeat, to the power hidden in the frailest beauty, to the dignity in pain which accepts hurt but disdains to return it."
"'Same - same,' he (Ketut) said. 'Same in end, so better to be happy on journey.'
"I said, 'So if heaven is love, then hell is . . .'
"'Love, too,' he said. I sat with that one for awhile, trying to make the math work. Ketut laughed again, slapped my knee affectionately with his hand.
"'Always so difficult for young person to understand this!'" p 263
Earlier, she wrote, "Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upwards into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it" p 260
So, shrinking so others won't think I'm a fool will never bring me to happiness. Stepping aside, so as to not impede and therefor anger the more ambitious and driven will never bring me to happiness. And, using others to gauge my value, my worth, my validity will keep me sad and scared and cowering in the corner, while God wonders what I've done with the gifts he's given me.
It keeps us men from being sympathetic. We still live under the illusion that we need to be strong, show no emotion, work hard and answer conflict with violence. Like a man said to Brene, "My women would rather see me die on my white horse than watch me fall down . . . the women in my life are harder on me than anyone else."
Shame keeps me from seeking work as a writer because I don't have a college degree. It keeps me from actively seeking roles I know I could play, or that I'd be "perfect for". It keeps us small. It keeps us from loving our husbands and wives. It keeps us from giving them the full honor and respect we vowed to them on our wedding day.
It keeps us making fun of people, judging them, criticizing them, tearing them down so we don't feel so small, so vulnerable.
She made a point that we believe something which I have, in fact, felt deep down for a very long time: vulnerability = weakness.
Yet, she pointed out that when we see some one bearing their soul, being honest about themselves, being vulnerable, we applaud their bravery.
I, too, have shrunk, kept myself small, too afraid to dare greatly. And, where has it gotten me? What has this kind of behavior gotten you? Ask yourself, "If I dared greatly in whatever I love to do, what would happen?" No, "what are you afraid would happen", but what would actually happen? If you failed, at least you had the courage to try, to dare greatly. And, on your deathbed, you could look back, not with regret, but with the knowledge that, at least, you tried. You honored the life and the love and the courage and the strength that was given you by God and nobody, NOBODY can take that from you. No amount of sarcasm, making fun, criticizing, judging or anything can take that greatness from you.
The cowards scoff and the courageous dare.
All you do when you make fun of people and criticize them is show how frightened you are. What are you so afraid of?
Tagore writes: "Give me the supreme courage to love, this is my prayer - the courage to speak, to do, to suffer at Your will, to leave all things or be left alone. Strengthen me on errands of danger, honor me with pain, and help me climb to that difficult mood that sacrifices daily to you.
"Give me the supreme confidence of love, this is my prayer - the confidence that belongs to life in death, to victory in defeat, to the power hidden in the frailest beauty, to the dignity in pain which accepts hurt but disdains to return it."
"'Same - same,' he (Ketut) said. 'Same in end, so better to be happy on journey.'
"I said, 'So if heaven is love, then hell is . . .'
"'Love, too,' he said. I sat with that one for awhile, trying to make the math work. Ketut laughed again, slapped my knee affectionately with his hand.
"'Always so difficult for young person to understand this!'" p 263
Earlier, she wrote, "Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upwards into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it" p 260
So, shrinking so others won't think I'm a fool will never bring me to happiness. Stepping aside, so as to not impede and therefor anger the more ambitious and driven will never bring me to happiness. And, using others to gauge my value, my worth, my validity will keep me sad and scared and cowering in the corner, while God wonders what I've done with the gifts he's given me.
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